‘No. I mean ... No.’
‘Were you going to say something else there, Jane?’
Jane trailed her finger through some spilled tea on the tabletop. ‘I suppose I was going to say not officially.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I ...’ Jane hesitated. ‘Oh hell ... She thought the kids her parents approved of – because they knew the kids’ parents and everything – she thought they were all going to be a bit like safe. She wanted to kind of spice things up a bit. So like, yeah, she might have made it easier for the local guys to get in. Like that’s the sort of thing she does. I mean, you never really know what she’s going to do.’
‘Or who with?’ Annie Howe stood up. ‘Thank you, Jane. You won’t be going out, will you? We may want to talk to you again. Thank you, Ms Watkins.’
Merrily saw Jane blow out her cheeks in some kind of relief, and in the middle of it, Howe suddenly turned back to her.
‘Oh ... one last thing, Jane ... Did you see anyone else around after the party? Anyone you didn’t know. Or perhaps someone you knew hadn’t been invited?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
Annie Howe said, ‘How well do you know Laurence Robinson?’
Jane was caught out. She looked startled. Even Merrily thought she looked startled.
‘I ... I’ve met him a couple of times,’ Jane said. ‘He sometimes helps out at Ledwardine Lore. I’ve seen him there.’
‘Have you ever been to his house?’
‘No. Not really. I’ve been ... sort
‘And Colette. Does she know Mr Robinson?’
‘I suppose so. I mean, yes. We all kind of know him, because he used to be a kind of rock star. Sort of.’
‘When you say we
‘No, just Colette and me. And Lucy Devenish.’
‘When did you last see Mr Robinson, Jane?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You can’t remember all the way back to last night? When you were seen talking to Mr Robinson in Church Street?’
‘Was I? Oh. Yes. I think I met him on my way to the party. Yes, I did.’
‘But he didn’t go to the party. Or did he?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
Howe smiled her ice-maiden’s smile. ‘Well, thank you again. As I say, we may come back. Or if there’s anything you or your mother want to tell us, there’ll always be someone at the Country Kitchen. Until we find Colette.’
Merrily followed them numbly to the door, where Annie Howe said, ‘Do
Merrily said, ‘I may have met him. I don’t really know him.’
‘He lives alone, doesn’t he?’
‘So I believe. He had a girlfriend. She left, I’m told.’
‘And you felt ... all right ... about Jane seeing him. A man twenty years older, living on his own.’
Merrily said softly, ‘Is there a problem?’
‘He’s just someone we need to eliminate from our inquiries. I suppose I can tell you. As a clergyperson. I know it’ll go no further.’
‘You have my word,’ Merrily said.
‘Mr Robinson isn’t at home, but his cottage is in rather a mess. It may be a break-in, it may be a burglary – because there certainly isn’t much furniture in there. But there are signs of what might have been a struggle. The stereo left on. A damaged vinyl record on the turntable. There’s no sign of the owner or anybody else. And Mr Robinson – this is the confidential part, at this stage – has a history. A record.’
‘He made records,’ Merrily heard herself saying, ridiculously.
‘
‘What?’
‘Laurence Robinson was convicted of having sex with a minor. Girl. Under-age.’ Howe’s smile was steely and barbed, like a safety pin opening up.
29
Cogs
BY NINE O’CLOCK, they were putting up the last of the bunting and the fancy lights, Gomer Parry lifting Lloyd Powell in the bucket of his pet digger, Gwynneth, and not happy about this – a bit dangerous, it was, see, with no insurance to cover it and all these coppers around.
For once, though, the police never even noticed Gomer. Too busy trying to find the Cassidys’ promiscuous daughter. Or was it precocious? No, this time Gomer reckoned he had it about right.
Got to feel sorry for them, though, the Cassidys. Moved out here to get away from the big bad city. Wound up somewhere
Gomer watched Lloyd Powell up in the bucket, attaching a string of wooden lanterns to a wrought-iron hook on the right-hand gable of the Black Swan. No coloured lights, this wasn’t Christmas; these were Middle Ages-style lamps, handmade by this blacksmith bloke, from Croydon, had a workshop bottom of Old Barn Lane. Feller provided the lanterns free in the hope of picking up a few orders.
Take more than a few wooden lanterns to light up this place, though.
Little and bad.
Now why did he think that? It was a decent village, in many ways. Friendly, on the whole, nobody complaining about the newcomers. Not as it would make much difference if they did, mind, seeing as how the newcomers were now well in the majority, or maybe it just felt like that, on account of they ran everything, with their superior knowledge of marketing and public relations, fancy stuff like that.
Course, Gomer, he was a newcomer too. Not so much of one, like, on account of he only moved about twenty miles and he talked near enough the same, and he’d done a lot of work in these parts, over the years, so knew quite a few people before he moved in. Like Bull-Davies, whose fields he’d drained. Like Rod Powell, whose new cesspit he’d dug when Lloyd was no more than a babby and ole Mrs Powell, Edgar’s missus, had been alive to terrorize Rod’s wife. Drove her away in the end. Fearsome woman, Meggie Powell.
Aye, it was a hard place all round, was Ledwardine, when Gomer first come here. Lucy Devenish’d been right about that. Them days, some poor bloke with a Mr Cassidy accent ventured into the Black Swan, there’d be a red- cheeked, stone-eyed young farm-labourer, pissed-up on cheap scrumpy and just itching to punch his lights out for the fun of it. And for resentment’s sake. Nobody hereabouts was rich, see, save for the Bulls, and they always punched back. Except when they punched first.
Sawdust on the floor of the Black Swan, them days, to make it easier cleaning up the blood and the puke.
There was an exhibition of posh watercolours opening in the Swan this evening, with a recital by a string quartet.
At the new tourist information office (once a butcher’s shop, with slaughterhouse behind, blood and offal running down Church Street on Fridays) there was a display of local crafts, crafted by folk from London and Birmingham. On Monday evening, a poetry reading.
Gomer looked up at a movement. Out of Church Street strode the Bull-Davies floozy, a little smile on her mouth. Now that was a funny business, the big Bull penned up by a woman came out of nowhere. Who was she, what had she got in mind for James, and where had she been this not-so-fine morning?
‘OK, Gomer?’
